From The Frozen Tome

Cast now your net and 

Cast it wide, for 

In its shadow 

You must hide

Or you'll be caught 

In the ebbing tide

Of Time.

It rushes by

Erasing traces, prints

And such, in causal

Chains formed of 

Foolish trust that

Man could lay

By will alone

Some makers mark 

In steel or stone

To outlast his 

Own weak, sun

Bleached bones,

Foreseeing not 

That Time's backwash

Would wipe both the

Maker and the 

Made and so

Eternally disguise

That Man ever was

Along with 

All the clues

As to his fate

Amongst all the rest 

That

Time's tossed 

As waste.…

The Survival Show

Like a plague upon a 

Near motionless ocean,

All rot and slime and 

Maggots in rotation,

That flood of filth, all the 

Visions I abhor assault 

My inner eye, the ravaged 

Passage to my mind.

Caverns carved of

Ice and nighttime, where

Ghouls and grimmer 

Bite and frighten,

All 'round lies horror,

Gore and more, deftly 

Orchestrated torture

For what mind is left me.

To counter Chaos, to survive,

To run the gauntlet and emerge

With sanity intact and live, I've

Few tools but they must serve:

I cauterise, externalise,

Analyse and systemise.

On occasion don a

Milder face which confuses,

Giving, while my foe a

Moment muses, a brief 

Respite, too brief but still 

Of priceless calm a taste.

These are the tools I've 

Learned to use 

To toss the terrors

Back down the well.

All I do is done in haste,

For I fear my limit's nearly 

Here and that Death may

Yet become my last career.

But until it's certain, until 

Falls the curtain, I am 

Determined to send Chaos'

Minions o'er the lip and 

Down the dread well, so that  

They, not I, are welcomed to 

Go drown in Hell.

When I Was Small

There was a time when 

Time was never on 

My mind at all, yes I 

Do believe, I do believe 

That's true, though 

Long ago it was. When 

I was small, I never 

Thought of time at all.

Summers didn't seem to 

Pass, they simply were 

The grass eternal, forever 

Green, the scented air so

Mystic, soft and moss-like 

Yet of a clarity I can only 

Label crystalline 

The lives 'tween then and 

What I'm used to calling 

Now, filter time, sieve it

Somehow and mem'ries

Dim, become less fresh

Assume an eerie otherness 

As if it's someone else's 

Past that I do recall, so 

Perhaps the mem'ries aren't 

Mine at all, at least not 

The ones from when I 

Was small.

…Of Belovèd Memory

Near five score 

Years she dwelt here

In peace and war and 

Labours dear from

Room to room to

Room and gardens 

About the walls and 

Girdling trees to 

Which she was so 

Tightly tied that 

She was free to 

Be what she was 

Birthed to be and

So she was the

Mother given me, a

Sister to the trees 

Keeper of the many

Gardens green and 

Splashed with every 

Rainbow's hues, the 

Very riot of life to 

Which she was both 

Nursemaid and 

Wife, coach, counsel 

Merry saviour of 

Empty days, of

Lonely nights filled 

A-brim with the 

Hollow howl of 

A dreaded 'morrow

Come at last. So 

Still these days that 

Take years to pass

Their passage 

Wed to the leaden

Baggage that is 

The order of today 

When once a home 

Lies in ruins now 

Named a house 

Its living heart

Having heard the 

Horn of Time, the 

Final call and 

Signal to 

Depart.…

Luciferia

O, woe be unto the 

Naïveté of man, to

Think that by simply 

Placing the past on a shelf 

He can hope to make peace 

With Satan Herself.…

Hard-core Romance

No love has ever loved 

As Romeo did Juliet but,

A junky's love is 

Greater still, with 

Body, heart and soul 

All serfs serving 

One lone goal with 

Total, focused, wanton will.

The Life Song

First you start in the 

Womb then hang a 

Right for the tunnel,

An automatic funnel

Which will squeeze 

You like toothpaste 

Into light.

Then that's where 

You'll stay for the 

Rest of your days 

Obsessed with the 

Tunnel you traveled,

While your lifespan 

Unravels and you 

Unconsciously yearn

To make your return 

To the womb.

But you never will 

And the count of 

Your days in the sun

Slowly clicks down to 

None and time 

Finally comes to 

Funnel you, not 

Back to the womb

But to the much

Colder dark of

Your table for one 

In the loneliness 

Of a tomb.